


To See Another's Woe

by wendymr



Series: Seek For Kind Relief [1]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Community: lewis_challenge, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 19:07:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Not been the easiest to work with today, I know.”</i> Robbie is in a foul mood; James wants to understand why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To See Another's Woe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cactusonastair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactusonastair/gifts).



> With thanks to Lindenharp for BRing, and the mods of the Lewis_Challenge community for a fantastic festival of fic.

“Haven’t you finished that report for CPS yet, Sergeant?”

James winces at the irritable, just on the verge of angry, edge to his governor’s voice. Lewis has been pissed off all morning, and he hasn’t as yet been able to figure out why. They solved their latest case yesterday, and haven’t been called out to anything new yet, so the agenda for today is just paperwork and slogging away at some older cases hoping to come up with some new leads. Yes, Lewis can get grumpy if he’s got too much administration on his hands, but that last case was exhausting and he told James yesterday evening as they left the pub that he was hoping nothing new would come up for a day or two. So it can’t be that.

He glances around, noting again the downward slope of Lewis’s mouth and the bad-tempered set of his eyebrows as he rummages through a desk drawer. “Working on it, sir,” he says, keeping his voice calm and avoiding any hint of facetiousness, or resentment at his boss’s unaccustomed snappishness. This isn’t usual for Lewis, not now – they’ve been working together for long enough that most of the time Lewis treats him as an equal, not a subordinate.

“Well, work faster,” Lewis snaps, and slams the drawer shut.

“Yes, sir.” James sighs silently. “Actually, I think a cigarette and a coffee first might clear my head. Can I bring you anything?”

Lewis just glowers at him. It’s clear that James’s plan for a quick break is being permitted under sufferance. 

James jogs downstairs and, pausing only to light up, strides out of the car park, then pauses. He’d like to walk up to the Costa Coffee on the High Street, but even with his long legs it’s at least ten minutes there and back, and he’s not going to try Lewis’s lack of patience that far. Not today. He could drive. That might be better – except he has to finish his cigarette first. No smoking in official police-issue vehicles.

He paces as he smokes. It’s been a long time since Robbie – as James thinks of his boss in the privacy of his own head – has had a day as bad as this. Lewis isn’t bad-tempered as a rule and, although he’s particular about how he likes things done, the two of them have developed a routine and work very well together. Lewis trusts him to do his job and knows it’ll always be done to a high standard. 

Today’s mood isn’t anything to do with James; he’s well aware of that, and isn’t taking it personally. What he does want is to figure out what’s behind it and deal with the cause, if at all possible, for Robbie’s sake.

Innocent? He’s not aware of Lewis having any interaction with her today, and certainly not anything that would have put him in a raging strop. Which isn’t to say that there couldn’t have been something – a phone call before Lewis came into work, or an email. He’s not entirely sure that Robbie began his workday in this state – he himself was out at the Public Records Office first thing looking up some information they needed and hadn’t been able to track down online.

All the same, if it was Innocent James is pretty sure that Robbie would have told him about it. He doesn’t tend to keep stuff like that secret – he shares the pain or annoyance or whatever it is; the two of them against the world, as it sometimes seems. 

So, if not Innocent, then what? 

He’s aware of the anniversaries, of course: wedding anniversary, Val’s birthday, and the worst of all, the nineteenth of December. He’s seen them come and go over the years, and watched the impact on Robbie gradually lessen. His governor still observes each one; still visits the grave with fresh flowers and, increasingly, a gentle monologue rather than the tortured silence of too-fresh grief. Robbie thinks James doesn’t know about those visits, but James is well aware of them; sees it as his business to remain aware of his governor’s well-being. 

Some new reminder? But even those are less painful these days. Lewis tends to bear those in stoic silence, getting on with things rather than lashing out. The Lady Matilda’s case last year is the obvious example there; only someone who knows Robbie well, such as himself, would have known there was something to be discovered in his boss’s reaction to the scene of the murder. Lewis himself had been his usual dedicated self on the job and, again, only James – or the good Dr Hobson – would have noticed anything different.

James slides into his car and goes in search of decent coffee – he’ll bring back a cup for Robbie as well as himself, not so much in the hope that it’ll put himself back in Robbie’s good books, but rather that it’ll remind him that someone cares about him. Even in his current state of Lear raging against the storm.

_____________________________________

James is coming back into the squadroom after lunch when he almost collides with Laura Hobson on her way out.

“Doctor! Did I forget a meeting, or was this just a social call?”

She ignores his question, stopping dead and frowning up at him. “What’s Robbie’s problem today?”

Discretion always being the better part of valour in James’s opinion, he merely gives the good doctor an enquiring look. Hobson practically rolls her eyes. “He almost bit my head off, Hathaway, and I know it’s not just me.”

“He didn’t say anything to you?” James asks; if Lewis wouldn’t talk to Hobson, this is serious.

Hobson sobers, concern filling her eyes. “Not a dicky-bird. And if he didn’t tell _you_?” She raises an eyebrow, questioning. James shakes his head. After a moment, she lays a hand on his arm. “Look after him, James.”

He nods. “Always.”

_____________________________________

It’s close to six o’clock when they’re ready to knock off for the day. Lewis is first to shut off his computer and clear his desk, and James – who could have called it a day any time in the last hour – saves his work and shuts down.

“Pint, sir? On me,” he says as Lewis stands and pulls on his jacket.

Quite apart from the fact that he always has the sensation that there’s something not quite right if a workday ends without a pint with his boss, James has another reason for making the offer, of course. Robbie’s mood hasn’t improved, though for most of the afternoon he’s been morose rather than stroppy. This could be a chance to find out what the problem is, but even if Robbie doesn’t feel like talking it’s further proof that it’ll take more than a bad day to lose the loyalty and respect – or more – of his sergeant. His best mate, as James sometimes dares to consider himself.

“Not really the best of company today,” Lewis answers, and his tone’s intended as a rejection.

“All the more reason why you should.” James steps out from his desk so that he’s next to Lewis as the senior officer heads to the door, and he lays his hand against Robbie’s back. “A pint or two of Bridge, intelligent company, and I’ll even promise not to quote poetry at you. How can a microwaved dinner for one compete with that?”

Lewis sighs and gives a faint nod. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

They drive separately to the pub, and James sends Lewis to get a table while he goes inside to order their drinks. By the time he comes out, Robbie’s occupying a table in their preferred location, right by the river and some distance from other customers. James can’t help but see this as a good sign.

He sets the pints down and reaches for his cigarettes. Once he’s lit up, he reaches for his glass and inclines it gently in Lewis’s direction. “Cheers.”

Lewis raises an eyebrow, his look more cynical than James has seen in some time. “If you say so.”

“Well, if you prefer, I could try _Prost_ , or _Sláinte_ , or _A votre santé_ , or _Salut_ , or _Iechyd da_ – or even _Bene tibi_?”

“That last one sounded suspiciously like Latin to me,” Lewis says, eyes narrowed.

James allows himself a faint smirk. “Can’t get anything past you, sir, can I?”

Lewis just shrugs and falls silent, as if he’s made his contribution to the conversation and that’s all James will get from him. But Lewis isn’t the only effective interrogator in their partnership. James just takes a long drag on his cigarette and waits.

It takes a few minutes, but he gets what he wants in the end. Lewis sighs. “Not been the easiest to work with today, I know.”

“Everyone’s entitled to an off-day, sir. Even you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Lewis takes a long drink of his pint. “You’re a damn good sergeant, James. Sometimes wonder why you put up with me, especially on a day like today.”

James allows himself a wry smile. “As I already told you, who else would understand me?”

“Who else’d understand me, more like,” Lewis says, shaking his head.

Lewis is silent for almost a minute. James knows better than to make conversation. If Lewis wants to tell him, he will – but he won’t be rushed.

Finally, he says, “Got a phone call this morning from a mate in the prison service. Said he wanted to give me advance warning.” He pauses, and his expression grows angry; his fists clench. “Simon Monkford’s getting out on parole next month.”

Already? But then, James reminds himself, the judge sentenced Monkford to seven years, with a recommendation that he serve at least five. And, yes, it has been five years.

That kind of pragmatic answer isn’t what Robbie needs to hear at the moment, though. He already knows that – of course he does. The point is that Monkford’s going free while Robbie’s still suffering from the most painful loss he could have sustained. 

He reaches across the table and lays his hand over Robbie’s wrist. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs softly.

Lewis takes a deep breath, and James almost holds his, expecting his gesture to be rejected. But then Lewis lays his other hand on top of James’s, just for about two seconds, before pulling both hands away and scrubbing his face. “Fuck,” he mutters, and there’s brightness shimmering in his eyes that James pretends not to see. “It’s not fucking fair. Val’s dead, and he... _Fuck_.”

“Yeah.” James stubs out his cigarette. “What can I do?”

Get another pint; that’s the answer he’s expecting, and he’s already reaching out to pick up their glasses. But again Lewis surprises him. “I want to go to London. Will you come with me?”

London. To where his wife was killed, he means.

It’s not sensible. It’s probably not at all what any specialist in grief counselling would advise. But none of that’s important. It’s what Robbie wants, and that’s all that matters. “Of course I will. When do you want to leave?”

_____________________________________

Twenty minutes later, James pulls up outside Lewis’s flat. His governor’s wish was to go immediately, tonight. James suggested a delay only to go home and get changed.

As he’s getting out of the car to go inside, Lewis emerges, now wearing jeans and a rugby shirt; no need for a jacket on this warm summer evening. He nods at James and starts to walk towards his own car, but James jingles his keys. “I’ll drive.”

Lewis seems about to object, but then subsides and switches direction to go to the passenger side of James’s car, getting in and putting on his seatbelt in silence. He stays silent, and visibly tense, until they exit the M40 close to Uxbridge forty-five minutes later. 

James nods. “Oxford Street.” He’s never likely to forget. 

“Outside Selfridge’s. Dunno where you’re going to park.”

“Leave that to me,” James says calmly. “If all else fails, I’ve got my warrant card.”

The rest of the journey’s slow, with bumper-to-bumper traffic the closer they get to the West End. Edgeware Road’s full of taxis and buses in addition to cars, and as vehicles providing public transport they have right of way, continually pulling out in front of other cars. Finally, an hour and a half after leaving Oxford, James turns left at Marble Arch. Selfridge’s is ahead on the left, and the shutters are just being pulled down – it’s a few minutes after nine and the shop’s closed.

James pulls up in a taxi zone outside the shop and puts his _Oxford Police – Official Business_ card in a visible position on top of the dashboard. He’s out of the car first, and Lewis follows more slowly. James hangs back as Lewis walks a few paces forward, and then stops a few feet from the end of the taxi zone and crouches down, fingertips touching the pavement. His head’s bowed, and James averts his eyes from the grief he knows will be on his boss’s face.

Despite the time and that all the shops are closed, there’s still a fair bit of traffic around, both vehicular and pedestrian. Passers-by pause and stare at Lewis, though at first – London being what it is – they walk on by without stopping. When a small group of young, scantily-clad women clearly on the way to some night-spot or other pauses, James moves forward and holds up his warrant card. “Nothing to see here. Move along, please.”

They move, but it’s not long before more gawkers stop and stare. James orders them away as well, but then spots a police car driving towards them on the opposite side of the road. He can deal with the Met’s constables, of course, but at the same time it’s probably best to avoid the possibility of a report turning up on Innocent’s desk stating that two of her finest were behaving suspiciously sixty miles outside their territory.

He moves closer to Robbie. “Sir.” Lewis doesn’t answer; doesn’t give any sign of having heard James. He tries again; still no response.

He touches Lewis’s arm. “Robbie.” His voice is gentle, the tone he uses with victims of crime, he realises, and hopes his boss won’t resent him for it. After a moment, Lewis looks at him, blank-faced. “Come on. Time to go home.”

_____________________________________

Lewis lets him shepherd him back to the car, and gets in without protest. James is fastening his seatbelt when he hears his boss’s stomach rumbling, and he realises that neither of them has had anything to eat since around noon. A quick query on his phone’s browser and he has a destination, around fifteen minutes away, which he plugs into the GPS.

Lewis doesn’t speak until James turns off the A404 in White City. “This isn’t the way to the M40. Where’re you going?”

Their destination’s already in sight. “Mick’s Fish Bar. Rated four point five forks out of five on _London’s Top Nosh Spots for Coppers_.” He gestures towards the chippy.

Lewis blinks. “You’re makin’ that up.” James arches one eyebrow and allows his mouth to curve upwards at the corners. Lewis shakes his head, getting out of the car without comment once James has parked.

Over two plates of cod, chips and mushy peas, a large teapot between them on the table, James keeps up an undemanding flow of casual conversation of the type that doesn’t require Lewis to respond with anything other than the occasional nod or grunt. He won’t mention where they’ve just been. That’s for Robbie to bring up, should he want to. If he doesn’t, James will never mention it again.

Again, it’s probably not what a psychologist would probably recommend, but then James is not a psychologist and his boss is not a man who takes kindly to psychologists, or to touchy-feely counselling sessions. The two of them have always dealt with things together, in their own way, via lengthy yet companionable silences over a pint or three in one of their favourite pubs – or through keeping the other company through a difficult experience.

“Shall we go, sir?” James asks finally when their plates are clean. 

Lewis grunts again and lays a twenty and a five on the table before James can get his credit card out. “Thanks, man. Needed that.” He pats James on the back, then leads the way out to the car. James follows more slowly, studying his governor from behind. Anyone else would think Lewis was back to his normal self, but James knows better. The question is whether tonight’s pilgrimage will help him to let the renewed anger and misery go again – or whether Monkford’s release has just reopened all those old wounds and the grieving process will start all over again.

Regardless, whatever the result, one thing’s certain: Robbie Lewis won’t have to go through it on his own. Not while James still has breath in his body.

_____________________________________

It’s almost exactly half past eleven when James pulls up outside Lewis’s flat, leaving the engine running. “Here you are, sir. I’ll see you in the office in the morning.”

Lewis reaches over to touch his arm. “Come in for a bit?”

“It’s late,” he starts to say, but stops as he takes in the desolate expression on his boss’s face. No, the offer’s not just politeness – it’s a plea. “Course I will.” He’s used to getting by on less sleep than he’d like anyway, so even if it’s close to one before he gets home he’ll be fine. Anyway, it was for Lewis’s sake he’d been concerned about the time, not his own.

“I know it’s late, but I wouldn’t sleep anyway,” Lewis says, an apologetic tone in his voice as he fills the kettle. “You have a lie-in tomorrow. I’ll tell Innocent I told you to come in late ‘cause of all the extra hours you’ve been putting in.”

“Not necessary, sir.” James knows this kitchen as well as he does his own these days; he reaches into wall cupboards for mugs and sugar, then diverts to the fridge for milk. Lewis already has the coffee.

Lewis glances sideways at him. “You called me Robbie earlier.”

Bugger. He hadn’t thought his boss had taken in his words. “I apologise. You didn’t seem to hear–” 

“Ah, give over, man. ‘Bout time you stopped callin’ me sir other than when you have to.”

James busies himself putting milk in the mugs Robbie has just put boiling water in, hiding the pleased smile that he can’t stifle. 

They carry the coffee to the sofa, and James takes his accustomed place in the corner, Robbie in the centre. This flat – or wherever his boss happens to be living, since he’s moved three times since coming back to Oxford – has felt like a second home for a very long time now, considering all the evenings James has come over with case updates and been invited to stay for a drink, or just been given an open invitation to drop in if he’s not doing anything else. He even knows where the spare bedding is kept – and has used it more than a few times.

It’s a minute or two before Robbie speaks again. “You’ll have to tell me tomorrow who else I need to apologise to.”

James raises an eyebrow, discretion being the better part of valour on this one.

Robbie sighs. “Know you can’t be the only one. Who else’s head did I bite off today? An’ don’t pretend you don’t know. You always know – and you did damage limitation too, I bet.”

At that, James shrugs. “Couple of the DCs, but that’s no harm. Those two have been taking it a bit too easy lately – I’ve been meaning to talk to them.” He pauses. “And Dr Hobson.”

“Ah.” Robbie’s mouth turns down at the corners. “Thought she left a bit quick.” He sighs. “Have to take her to lunch to make up for it. Somewhere expensive.”

James smiles. “I’d say that’s likely to be an acceptable solution.” And not likely to be misunderstood these days, since currently Dr Hobson is frequently to be seen in the company of DI Peterson. Lewis hasn’t said so, but James knows he’s secretly relieved, now that he’s made up his mind that he really isn’t interested in more than friendship with the good doctor.

“An’ there’s you. Don’t think I don’t know how much you let me get away with today. You’re more than capable of letting me know when you’re not happy wi’ me, but you just put up with me bein’ a bastard to you. You really are–” _A prince among Sergeants_ , James expects, or something of similar ilk. “–the best mate a bloke could have.”

He knows he’s blushing; can feel the heat rising up his neck and over his face. Can’t be helped, though he minimises the impact by dipping his head, gazing down at the floor as he says, “Well, I knew there had to be a reason...”

“No, I mean it.” Robbie’s still looking at him, James can tell without needing to glance up. “Don’t say it enough – um, don’t say it at all, probably. But I don’t know what I did to deserve a mate like you. This evening, too. Thank you for comin’ with me. Couldn’t have done it on my own.” 

James looks up at that, and reaches over to touch Robbie’s forearm. “Any time. And,” he adds, because he has to say it, “it’s not just one-way. You’ve been a far better friend to me than I’ve merited over the years we’ve known each other, s– Robbie.”

“Ah, don’t talk rubbish, man.” Robbie shakes his head, then falls silent. 

“Not rubbish.” 

James drains his coffee and is about to declare that it’s time he left when his boss speaks again. “He’s served his time. I know that. It’s not like I didn’t know he’d be released. I just... I’d lost track.”

Was trying to forget, not to let his thoughts dwell on Monkford in the way some victims of crime they’ve seen become obsessively focused on the perpetrators, James knows.

“I can’t pretend to understand what you’re feeling,” James says, and even after all these years he still feels as if he’s picking his way carefully through the minefield. “But you don’t need to explain. For what it’s worth, your... reaction to him being released makes complete sense to me.”

Robbie looks straight at him, compelling him to look back. “Feels like you understand a lot better than you imagine.”

James hesitates, then quotes, “ _Can I see another's woe, and not be in sorrow too?_ ”

That gets him a faint, long-suffering smile and shake of the head. “Go on, then, where’s that from?”

“William Blake. _On Another’s Sorrow_ , from the _Songs of Innocence and Experience_. Published in 1789.”

“Blake. He was that bloke who wrote _Jerusalem_ , yeah?”

James bestows an approving grin. “He did indeed! Although, if you’re thinking of the poem later set to music by Parry, that was actually part of the preface to _Milton: A Poem_ , not Blake’s epic prophetic book.” Robbie rolls his eyes; James pretends to ignore it. “You may not be aware that for a long time Blake was seen as a supporter of the ‘free love’ movement: the idea that marriage is a form of slavery and that people should have the freedom to partner with whomever they wish, regardless of who those partners may be or the duration of the partnership.” James smirks. 

“Right, so Mary Whitehouse wouldn’t’ve been a fan, then,” Robbie comments dryly. He’s clearly starting to regain his equilibrium, otherwise he’d never allow James to draw him into one of his digressions. 

“Hardly. She’d have disapproved thoroughly of his views on Christianity as well.”

Robbie raises an eyebrow. “Think I might’ve liked this Blake bloke, then.”

“As long as he didn’t quote too much poetry at you, I suspect.” 

“Yeah.” Robbie leans his head against the sofa-back, staring up at the ceiling. For a moment, James considers again whether politeness dictates that he should leave, but a sideways glance at his boss shows him the tension that’s back in Robbie’s jaw. Damn. Equilibrium not fully regained, then.

After a couple of minutes, Robbie speaks again, and the pain’s back in his voice. “I could get that it might have been carelessness. Not paying attention. That could happen to anyone – we’ve seen it often enough. But not to stop – to just drive on an’ leave her there... I can never forgive that.”

James nods. “Understandable – though, for what it’s worth, I think it’s the one bad decision in his life he genuinely regrets. Despite his bluster with you, when I confronted him he admitted it immediately – as if it was a relief to stop pretending it had never happened.”

“Yeah. I listened to the tape.” That’s news to James, though he doesn’t comment. “You did a good job. Never thanked you properly then, did I?”

“You did. In ways far more significant than words,” James adds quickly before Robbie can protest. After a moment of holding his gaze, Robbie nods, acknowledging the point. 

“You okay?” James asks after a moment of shared, comfortable silence.

Again, Robbie nods. “Yeah. I will be. No need to duck when you see me at work tomorrow.” He even summons a wry smile.

“I don’t duck. I just buy you excellent coffee.”

“That you do.”

James begins to stand. “Time I went home.”

Robbie lays a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Ah, it’s late, man, an’ you’ve done a lot of driving tonight as it is. Stay here – if you’re okay with the couch, that is.”

“Slept on it before without any noticeable ill-effects.”

“Yeah. Still.” Robbie stands and leaves the room, while James takes their mugs to the kitchen. He’s washing them when Robbie comes back with the spare bedding. “Time I got a bigger flat. Spare bedroom’d be handy.”

“Not necessary,” he starts to protest; the couch is fine for the occasional night. Though the suggestion’s... very appealing, and speaks volumes again about his importance to Robbie. He has to glance away as that realisation sinks in. 

Robbie cuts across him. “Be good to have company around the place more often. If you like the idea?”

He inclines his head, composure regained. “Crap telly does appear to be more entertaining at your place.”

“There’s that.” Robbie drops the pillows and blanket on the sofa. “You can help me look. Don’t see the point in havin’ a sergeant with the best research skills in Oxfordshire an’ not making use of him.”

James walks over towards the sofa, waggling his fingers. “My Google-fu is at your service.”

“Your what? No, never mind,” Robbie adds immediately, waving a hand in dismissal. “Tell you what, though. If you make that pasta thing of yours after I move, I’ll even let you keep a toothbrush there.”

James lays a hand over his heart. “How could I resist? I’ll even colour-coordinate it with your bathroom.”

Robbie grabs one of the pillows and swings it at James. He... ducks.


End file.
